


Cowboy

by barbaricyawp



Series: Torture Tuesday [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: HYDRA Trash Party, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-01 14:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18801793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: Bucky Barnes is forced to ride the wooden horse.





	1. Chapter 1

The Winter Soldier no longer fears punishment, but rather accepts what he deserves with near-philosophical grace. He doesn’t fear any punishment…except the wooden horse.

He is shaking when they strip him. Shaking when they bind his flesh arm to the metal arm. When they part his legs, the asset is pleading.

“Please, not the horse,” he says, even as they lower him onto the wooden horse. “Anything else.”

In HYDRA’s bountiful mercy, they muzzle him so he won’t plead during his punishment. Pleading is not allowed.

It’s not a horse, so much as a wooden wedge mounted on a saw-horse. At first, they allow the asset to balance on his toes, and the sharp edge of the horse isn’t immediately painful.

He squirms atop it, trying to keep his body away from the edge. Trying to avoid the inevitable.

But then they bind his ankles to his thighs so that the entirety of his body grinds against the triangular peak. The asset knows better than to thrash, knows better than to try to find a way to ease the pain between his legs. It only makes it worse.

But this is a punishment. So, they make it worse.

A rattan cane has been soaking in a barrel of water for the past thirty minutes while the asset suffered on the wooden horse. Lieutenant Rollins strides over to it now, and lifts it from the barrel. The asset watches with mounting horror as the cane emerges from the water. It is as long as the asset’s leg, as thick as his wrist. Waterlogged, soaked, dripping wet and  _heavy._

The asset’s toes curl up against the soles of his feet. Water, salt water, drips down his cheeks. He’s frightened. Really and truly frightened.

Rollins is not merciful. He is a large man with a mean streak, and he uses those qualities to his full advantage when he strikes the asset with the cane.

The first blow lands on his thigh, as painful and startling as a lightning clap. The muscle twitches involuntarily, grinding the asset’s perineum against the edge of the wooden horse. The skin there is delicate, the wood beneath is sharp. 

Agony unfurls from its tight clench between his legs. The asset suffers.

The second blow lands on his thigh again, the same place. The asset gives a full-bodied shudder that has him twitching and convulsing atop the horse. He tries to flinch away from the next blow, but Rollins’ cruelty is inexorable.

“Ride ‘em, cowboy,” Commander Rumlow says to Lieutenant Rollins. The asset hadn’t even noticed he was in the room until now.

Rumlow laughs at his own joke, and the Winter Soldier doesn’t understand. None of this is very funny to him. 

The next blow strikes down on his buttocks, his hips thrust forward without his consent, dragging him along the edge of the wooden horse. He is awash in pain, in naked humiliation. In real, true fear.

Lieutenant Rollins responds to Rumlow with a mumbled, “Real  _buckin’_ bronco.” 

Rumlow laughs some more.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky is a stupid man who never learns his lesson.

He used to mistake this quality for bravery. Maybe even some form of heroism, if he was flattering himself. But now he realizes it’s just plain, willful stupidity. And all of this is his own damned fault.

After all, it was his stupidity that landed him here with the Soviets. It was stupidity that convinced him to mouth off to his captors. It was his stupidity that made him bite that Soviet dentist’s finger off.

And it is stupidity that deludes him into thinking the wedge in the middle of the cell isn’t all that threatening.

After all, it’s just a sharp triangle of wood mounted on a saw-horse. It’s not made of metal. They can’t electrocute him on it like they can on the metal bed frame. What are they going to do? Burn him on it?

He should have known something was wrong based on the Soviet’s excitement. If Bucky was just a fraction more observant, he would have noticed their enthusiasm as they goad him towards the wooden wedge. Would have registered their eager chatter.

As stupid as he is, Bucky gets the general idea that things are going south when they tear open his shirt.

“Cut it out,” he says. They’ve bound his remaining arm to his side, and the tatters of his shirt burn where the Soviets tug them out from under the ropes. 

He’s even less pleased when they yank at the cuffs of his trousers, sending him toppling to the ground. Bucky’s temple cracks against the concrete. Rotten bastards.

His eyes widen when they pull the trousers clean off his legs. Dread plummets like a stone through his body. He’s faced a range of indignities during his Soviet capture, but none like this.

It was only a matter of time.

They lift him by the ropes that wrap all the way around his torso to bind his arm. For a moment, he’s suspended above the wedge.

Bucky fights the good fight. He kicks and bites and thrashes his head, but there are too many of them. And Bucky’s been their prisoner for ages…he’s weaker than he used to be.

With some effort, the Soviets lift Bucky atop the wooden wedge. His legs splay over the edges, straddling the sharp peak. 

Oh. It  _hurts_.

The angular press against the sensitive skin of his perineum and sac is an immediate shock to the system. The kind that ignites his entire pelvis and rockets up his spine in a panic to his brain.

Bucky kicks up off of it. “Like hell I’m going to  _sit_ on that damn thing,” he spits at his captors. 

The Soviets wrestle him back onto the ghastly device. This time, two of them brace him down by the shoulders. The others bind his ankles to his thighs, one to his wrist, spreading his legs wider.

The way he’s bound up forces Bucky’s spine into an arch. The arch grinds his hips down against the dry wood. There’s a few inches that he can lean back into, but this angle cleaves the wood between his buttocks, against the clench of muscle there.

Bucky flushes, realizing his predicament for the first time. “What the hell is this?” He is surprised to hear himself panting.

He’s been on this thing for no more than a minute, and he’s already  _panting._

“Wood horse,” one Soviet explains with a grin. “You are cowboy now.”

 

—

 

Bucky is a stupid man who never learns his lesson. 

But he might on this wooden horse.

 

—

 

Within minutes, he’s damp all over with a fearful sweat. Within an hour, he’s twitching and shifting from side to side, desperate to find a way off this thing. 

He can adjust the pressure if he twists his hip to the side. And that provides some relief, but the angle settles the wood directly against his pubic bone.

So he shifts back and forth, back and forth. The friction over the grainy wood makes it worse, so much worse, but he can’t help himself. It’s like picking at a scab.

 

—

 

After a few hours, it dawns on him that there’s no way to change this. The pain is inescapable. And it’s his to bear.

While the Soviets watch.

 

—

 

He tries to clutch his inner thighs against the wood. If he pushes hard enough, he can leverage his body a bare centimeter above the sharp edge. The Soviets catch on in an instant. They tie weights to his ankles, driving his burden of his body lower onto the wooden horse.

After they attach the weights, the Soviets remain in close proximity. They’re waiting to see what the new strain on his legs will do to him.

Bucky only manages to keep his relative composure for another hour. And then, traitorously, a whine works its way from his throat. Strangled and nearly swallowed down, but a whine nonetheless.

A round of laughter sounds from the Soviets. So pleased with themselves; they’ve finally made the American cry. Bucky struggles against the weight, trying to shimmy his legs up the wedge, but he’s instantly dragged back down again by his ankles. It’s over. He’s  _lost_.

Defeated, he lets his whole body slump forward.

Bucky’s head drops forward to hide the tears that stream from his eyes.

Someone grabs him up by the hair, forcing him to face forward. “No more cowboy?” the Soviet asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “No more cowboy.” He hesitates, then adds, “Please.”

 


End file.
